


Atelophobia

by breaumonts (AnonymousCatastrophe405)



Series: I'll Fall With You [6]
Category: The Royal Romance (Visual Novel)
Genre: Anxiety, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gossip, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Insomnia, Napping, Self-Esteem Issues, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 00:51:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16985001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousCatastrophe405/pseuds/breaumonts
Summary: Anger.  He remembers being angry.  He remembers realizing Bertrand probably said similar things behind his back and his chest aching like a wound as it sunk in.  He got up suddenly, inadvertently drawing attention to himself as he stood and accidentally sent his silverware to the floor.  He wanted to say something, he needed to say something, but Bertrand’s expression was their father’s.Don’t make a scene.  Don’t embarrass me.He left, knowing they wouldn’t feel an ounce of shame that he’d overheard them, the embarrassed one rather than any of them.





	1. Eccedentesiast

**Author's Note:**

> **Atelophobia** \- _(n.) the fear of not being good enough_

The line between sleep and wakefulness is a tenuous one.  Often Maxwell finds himself snapping suddenly from one to the other with no recollection or sensation of ever being between the two stages, but he supposes it’s part and parcel with never truly feeling rested.  

There are days when he barely feels present, merely the idea of Maxwell puppeting a Maxwell suit, days with a hazy, exhausted vagueness around the edges and long stretches of minutes he can’t recall.  People seldom notice when he has these kinds of days, and as comforting as it is for no one to be any the wiser, it hurts to realize he’s so good at playing his part that people don’t even notice when he’s having an off day anymore.    
  
There are other days like the last few when he’s so frayed at all his edges sitting still for any stretch of time makes his bones ache and sleeping becomes impossible, when he needs to move and pace and try to convince some stranger or two in some club he’s worth a bit of their time until he’s too tired to forget he doesn’t feel like himself.    
  
People notice those.  They usually make it a point to inform him that they’ve noticed it, and often in a way that makes him feel even worse for not being able to pull off his usual act.  He only knows how to perform himself as people expect him to act, he never quite mastered any other role.  He’s Maxwell, the court jester.  Maxwell, Barthelemy’s younger son, Bertrand’s brother, the lesser Beaumont.  The embarrassment.  The screw-up.  The disappointment.  
  
 _Bartie must be rolling in his grave after that business with the American girl this season.  I heard she was Maxwell’s idea.  
  
Of course she was, Bertrand would never have settled for a suitor like that.  She is pretty, though, if you like them twiggy and ginger.  And those freckles!  The girl couldn’t look less like a queen if she tried.  
  
Such a pretty dancer, though.  It’s too bad she’s such a little tramp.  Jumped right into bed with her sponsor after that whole affair business, didn’t she?  
  
There’s no accounting for taste, but she must be a firecracker in bed to get two different noblemen and the Prince eating out of her palm like that.  
  
Something tells me it doesn’t take much to get our dear Lord Beaumont into bed.  Adelaide has to like him for a reason, and it can’t be his conversation.    
  
Maxwell is a simple thing, isn’t he?  Not much going on in there.    
  
He’s pleasant enough to look at, I suppose, but I don’t know what my daughter sees in him.  
  
He looks just like his father, but he didn’t get any of Barthelemy’s brains.  Imagine what House Beaumont could be if Bertrand didn’t have a hanger-on like that for a brother.    
  
God only knows how the boy even managed to graduate from King’s College.  A bribe, probably.   
  
Unfortunately not everyone is as blessed as you are with your youngest.  At least poor Marianna isn’t around to be embarrassed by him anymore, the poor dear. _  
  
He’s awake.  It comes upon him as a subtle, creeping awareness, an internal survey of the state of things before he opens his eyes and has to come to terms with whatever stupid mess he’s made.    
  
He doesn’t remember.  It’s never good when he doesn’t remember.  His head is pounding, but he doesn’t feel groggy or sick or like his skin is crawling, so he doesn’t think he’s hungover or coming down off anything.  That’s good.  It’s a marked improvement from the last time this happened.    
  
Usually when he wakes up after days of not sleeping and wanting to peel himself out of his skin he ends up drunk ( _or worse, he has a hard time saying no when he’s sleep deprived_ ) and stupid ( _always stupid, he’s never been the smart or sensible one_ ) and being kicked out of a stranger’s bed ( _who else would have him if they knew any better?_ ), kept warm only by the fact that there are some things he’s good at ( _but most of them begin and end on a mattress_ ).  
  
He’s in bed, at least.  That’s a plus, at least, though he is on top of the covers.  He’s still dressed, also a plus.  He’s not cold, which is a negative because it means he’s not alone.  That’s never good.  He hopes it’s not anyone important, or, God forbid, another man.  Maxwell doesn’t want to be the sole surviving Beaumont after prematurely sending Bertrand to an early grave.  He’s laying on them, whoever they are, and they’re kind of pointy.  Angular.  Thin.  Not soft in places he normally expects a woman’s body to be.  They shift beneath him and he breathes a sigh of relief that his companion is, in fact, a woman.  And she smells good, like a garden after rain, flowers and ozone and petrichor.      
  
Oh no.  
  
He needs to get up, he needs to move, he needs to put distance between himself and Lisette as quickly as possible.  He remembers now.  Days ago he’d overheard some of the older members of the court gossiping in the dining car and what good mood he’d been in was snuffed out like a rabid animal behind a shed, with a sudden impact and a pathetic whimper.  His appetite immediately died and he’d pushed his food away.  
  
 _What’s wrong?_ Bertrand asked.  He hadn’t even looked up from the news on his phone.  
  
 _Don’t you hear them?  
_  
 _Maxwell._ A glare, barely sent his way over the tops of Bertrand’s reading glasses.  _Eavesdropping?  Really?_  
  
 _I’m not!  I–can’t you hear what they’re saying?_  
  
Bertrand narrowed his eyes and half-turned in their booth, hidden by the high back of the seat.  They’d never talk like that if they knew Maxwell was there to hear them, no matter how stupid they think he is.   _What is it you think you heard?_  
  
So dismissive, so condescending.  Maxwell was so distracted by Bertrand’s wording he forgot the comment that stung the most but not the way it struck him worse than a backhand.  He knew Bertrand had heard them, and while he didn’t expect his brother to interrupt their conversation, a bit of sympathy would’ve been appreciated.    
  
 _Why do you let them talk about me like that?  Why don’t you ever defend me to them?  
  
You’re not a child, you can do that yourself.  
  
You know they wouldn’t give a damn if it came from me.    
  
You’re being too sensitive, it’s just gossip.  It’s always backbiting, you know that.  Honestly, it’s like you haven’t been at court your entire life.  
  
I don’t–It’s like this every year, you know I hate it.  
  
Perhaps if you stopped playing into their expectations they’d have less to say, if you’re so concerned with others’ opinions of you._  
  
Anger.  He remembers being angry.  He remembers realizing Bertrand probably said similar things behind his back and his chest aching like a wound as it sunk in.  He got up suddenly, inadvertently drawing attention to himself as he stood and accidentally sent his silverware to the floor.  He wanted to say something, he needed to say something, but Bertrand’s expression was their father’s.   _Don’t make a scene.  Don’t embarrass me._  
  
He left, knowing they wouldn’t feel an ounce of shame that he’d overheard them, the embarrassed one rather than any of them.   
  
It ate at him for days as the train worked its way slowly through the Alps.  He couldn’t get away for even a few minutes, let alone a night.  He got claustrophobic, knowing with absolute, senseless certainty that at any given moment someone somewhere on the train was having a laugh over what happened in the dining car.  It came to him when he tried to sleep, when he tried to read, when he was talking to his friends, building until Drake threatened to throw him off the train if he couldn’t control his restlessness.  
  
 _It’s like I’m rooming with a fucking kid,_ Drake snapped, leaving Maxwell alone to try and wrestle the riot of anxiety and wounded ego and resentment into submission alone.    
  
And then there was Lisette, who had missed him this morning at breakfast.  Who wanted him to tell her what was bothering him.  Who waited until it bubbled up out of him when he couldn’t stand the silence anymore, and held him when the dam broke and his frustration spilled out of him.  Hadn’t they been talking about her, too?    
  
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, just that he wants to stay in bed with her until they get to Barcelona.  Instead, though, he sits up.    
  
She stirs under him, and her hand moves gently through his hair, her nails light on his scalp.  His eyes nearly drift closed again.  She whispers, a little thick with sleep.  “Hey.  Where’d you go?”  
  
Maxwell hums, answering by not answering.  Lisette’s hand finds the fine hairs at the back of his neck.  “Come back.  You still look tired.”  
  
As much as he wants to curl up with her again, he knows he can’t.  When he looks at her, the tumble of her copper colored hair over his pillows is both soothing and a warning.  This is dangerous.  This is wrong.  Bertrand will kill him if he finds them like this, and Maxwell might kill himself if he accidentally feeds the nasty rumors already circulating about Lisette.  He sits up further, away from her and suddenly cold.    
  
“You should go,” he says, without any real conviction.  “I don’t want people to get the wrong idea if they see you leaving.”  
  
Behind him she sits up.  “I don’t care what they think, Maxwell.  We didn’t do anything wrong.”  
  
She’s so naive, and he loves how real she is.  Madeleine and Liam aren’t even sharing a train car and they’re getting married in a few months, people will talk more than they already are if he actually gets caught with the disgraced former frontrunner for Liam’s hand coming out of his car with pillow marks on her face.    
“Are you okay?”  
  
He shrugs.  There’s no point in faking anything for her when she’s seen him cry.  “I’m better.  But I’ll be fine, really.”  
  
Her hand is so warm through his shirt.  The concern in her eyes is overwhelming and sincere.  It’s all he can do to not lean into her again.    
  
“I’m okay, Lisette.  You need to leave.”  
  
She frowns.  “If you’re sure.  You can come see me in mine if you need anything, okay?  I meant it, I’m here for you, for anything.”  
  
He nods, and he even manages to smile for her, even though he can tell it falls flat.  She smiles back, still looking worried about him, and pulls him into a hug.  Her pointy elbows and thin wrists are so strong, it never ceases to surprise him, but she’s solid as he wraps his arms around her.    
  
They don’t acknowledge that she kisses his cheek before she leaves, taking the smell of rain with her, but there are traces of it on his pillow when he lays back down to sleep again.   


	2. Catharsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why are you so nice to me?” he asks. “Everyone else just gets sick of me, or annoyed, or that just don’t even like being around me. No one else bothers.”
> 
> “You deserve it.” She kisses the top of his head, and his arms tighten around her. “I’ll kick the ass of anyone who says otherwise, starting with Bertrand.”
> 
> His laugh is genuine, but a little watery. “He won’t even see it coming.”
> 
> Satisfied that she’s doing a good job, Lisette smiles against Maxwell’s hair. “He better watch his back. I’m coming for him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the later half of the previous chapter, from Lisette's POV.
> 
> **Catharsis** \- _(n.) The purging or release of emotional tensions_

“Someone needs to do something about him before one of us goes out the window,” Drake grumbles into a mug of coffee.  It’s his second, which in itself highlighted how much more exhausted than usual Maxwell has been making him.  “And it won’t be voluntary.” 

  
Hana thoughtfully swirls her tea.  “What do you suppose is bothering him so much?  He’s always, er, active, but this seems excessive.”  
  
She’s referring to the extreme restlessness Drake was just complaining about, how Maxwell has been tossing and turning all night, using his phone for hours on end in the dark, getting up and pacing around their shared train car if he’s not coming and going at all hours of the night.    
  
“It’s Maxwell, Hana,” Drake says, as if that alone is some kind of explanation.  “He’s not exactly complicated.”  
  
Lisette makes an ugly, unladylike sound that Bertrand would reprimand her for if he was present to hear it.  “You’re being an ass.”  
  
Drake scowls at her and Hana hides a smile behind her teacup.  “We get it, Carignan, you’ve got a soft spot for him, but that doesn’t change the fact that Maxwell just isn’t that deep.”  
  
Lisette lets the jibe slide.  “Just because you can’t be bothered to actually get to know him better doesn’t mean he’s shallow.”  
  
Drake shrugs.  “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”  
  
Suddenly irritated, she excuses herself and walks the length of the dining car to the sleeper car Drake and Maxwell are sharing.  She can hear movement inside even before she knocks on the door.  She almost hesitates then shakes herself a bit.  It’s important she be here for Maxwell if something is, in fact, bothering him like Hana said.  Beaumonts stick together, or so she tells herself as she lifts her hand to knock on the door.  
  
It takes a minute and some muffled swearing before Maxwell appears to slide the door open, looking equal parts annoyed, tired, frazzled, and surprised to see her.  
  
“Hi?” he said.  He leaned into the narrow hallway, as if he expected her to have brought company.  “You’re alone?”  
  
“Yep.  I hadn’t seen you today, I thought I’d keep you company.”  
  
There’s a trace of wariness in the fine lines around his eyes.  “Why?”  He pinches the bridge of his nose the exact same way Bertrand does.  “Sorry.”  
  
“It’s okay.”  Lisette bites her lip.  “If you want to be alone, I understand.”  
  
Maxwell laughs, just once, without any humor in it at all.  It’s a terrible sound, and Lisette hates it immediately because it seems so very wrong.    
  
“No, I don’t, but no one else wants to be around me.  So.”  He steps back to allow her into the train car.  “I won’t mind if you don’t stay long.  I’ll understand.”  
  
At the Coronation, he told her people prefer him in small doses.  At the time, she’d thought it was a strange thing to say, but she hadn’t thought much of it with so much else going on.  Now, though, she remembers the self-deprecating way he’d said it, and something in her chest twists.  It’s actually very sad.  
  
The car is slightly bigger than her own to accommodate two occupants, and while it’s clearly clean, it’s the sort of messy Lisette associates with bachelors.  Drake’s side of the compartment is spartan compared to Maxwell’s but in a slightly worse state of disarray, and Maxwell’s is merely cluttered with things he packed and things he’s picked up since they left Cordonia.  He steps around her to clear off his bed to allow her a place to sit, because the car is lacking the small desk hers has.  Maxwell keeps muttering apologies about the state of things, but Lisette hasn’t felt this at home since she left New York.  She misses the realness of small spaces like this, the obvious signs of life that are conspicuously absent in the estates she’s been to since joining the royal court.    
  
She settles onto the bed.  “So.”  
  
Maxwell goes to sit on Drake’s bed, decides not to, and remains standing.  He cracks his knuckles, then his wrists, and then can’t decide if he wants his hands in his pockets or if he wants to cross his arms.  He’s so tightly wound up it might actually be hurting him, but he’s trying so hard to seem normal it almost seems worse by comparison, entirely false and ill-fitting like a bad suit.      
  
“Are you okay?” she asks.  
  
“I’m fine,” he replies, approximately twelve shades too brightly for how uncomfortable he seems.    
  
“Maxwell.”  Lisette pats the bed beside her.  “Come on, talk to me.  What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing.”  He says it too quickly.  “I mean, nothing’s wrong.”  
  
She looks at him for a long moment, long enough he starts to fidget again, before she shrugs and picks up a copy of Italian Vogue from his nightstand.  She glances at her watch, noting the time, and then pretends to read the magazine as Maxwell’s obvious upset makes him start to pace.  She suspects Maxwell will crack sooner rather than later and tell her what’s bothering him so much, and all she has to do is wait him out.    
  
Like a cat, if she leaves the door open, he’ll wander through it eventually.  She just has to be patient.    
  
To his credit, it takes almost half an hour before he snaps.  “I’m not stupid, you know.”  
  
Lisette lowers the magazine and frowns.  “I don’t think you’re stupid.”  
  
He groans, frustrated.  “I know  _you_  don’t, but everyone else does.  It’s the same thing, every year, and Bertrand just expects me to sit back and let people say it as if he’s not saying it behind my back.  God!  It’s so–I went to university, you know?  That’s more than half the people at court and it counts for nothing.”  
  
Lisette didn’t know he’d gone to college, but she sets the magazine aside, giving him her full attention now that he’s opening up.   
  
“No one takes me seriously, which I get, but it’s not fair,” Maxwell continues.  “No one’s ever even given me a chance to be anything but the dead weight Bertrand drags around with him.  And he’s the worst of them all, he’s almost as bad as–” he stops himself short, almost overcome with emotion.  “I just–I know I can’t do anything right, I know I’m not smart, I know that I’m never going to amount to anything, but that doesn’t mean I want to hear it from everyone all the time.”  
  
Despite his best efforts, his breath hitches and his voice breaks, and he presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.    
  
Lisette is on her feet before she makes the decision to get up, her sense of boundaries and propriety thrown out the window as she pulls Maxwell into an embrace, stopping his pacing mid-step.  Almost immediately his arms are around her and he sags, relieved or exhausted, to rest his head on her shoulder; she’d almost expected him to go rigid or flinch, maybe even push her away, and her heart breaks just a little at how badly he just have needed this.    
  
She pulls him gently towards his bed and he goes, allowing Lisette to lay down and then immediately collapsing beside her, clutching her like a lifeline.  She cards her fingers through his hair, the way her grandmother used to when she was upset, and it seems to relax him.  
  
“They’re wrong about you,” she whispers.  From his place against her neck, Maxwell scoffs.  “They are.  They’re the stupid ones if they can’t see how much more you are.  You’re brilliant, Maxwell, it’s just not in ways they an appreciate.”  
  
“You’re just saying that,” he says, sniffling a little.    
  
“I’ll say it until you believe it,” she promises.  “Even if I’m the only person saying it, I know I’m right.  I’ve got you.”  
  
“Why are you so nice to me?” he asks.  “Everyone else just gets sick of me, or annoyed, or that just don’t even like being around me.  No one else bothers.”  
  
“You deserve it.”  She kisses the top of his head, and his arms tighten around her.  “I’ll kick the ass of anyone who says otherwise, starting with Bertrand.”  
  
His laugh is genuine, but a little watery.  “He won’t even see it coming.”  
  
Satisfied that she’s doing a good job, Lisette smiles against Maxwell’s hair.  “He better watch his back. I’m coming for him.”  
  
“And Olivia,” Maxwell says.  “And Drake.”  
  
“My ass-kicking list is about to get really long, huh?”  
  
Maxwell hums, then yawns.  “Don’t pretend Drake wasn’t already on the list, Lisette, we both know he was.”  
  
“He has a permanent spot on it,” she tells him.    
  
“He deserves it,” Maxwell replies, a little sleepily.  He sighs heavily as she continues to stroke his hair.  “This is nice.”  
  
“It is,” she agrees.  She strokes his hair again and doesn’t stop until he’s sound asleep, snoring gently against her collarbone and clutching her like a teddy bear.  She presses another kiss to his head, wondering how she’s supposed to explain this to Drake when he comes back, or to Bertrand or anyone who comes looking for either of them.  
  
It doesn’t really matter, though, what anyone thinks, does it?  In their own ways, they’ve all made up their minds, and Lisette can’t be bothered to keep playing into their expectations and expecting to be okay in the long run anymore.    
  
She closes her eyes, too comfortable in Maxwell’s arms and too determined to be here when he wakes up to bother untangling herself from him, and lets herself fall asleep.


End file.
